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WIDOW’S PIQUE
My mother has been a widow forever, it seems. My father was an air force pilot and he was killed when I was twelve. Since then, my mother never remarried or even dated anyone. Her generation, born in the Great Depression and World War II era of Italian immigrant parents, believed you got one roll of the dice. You married somebody and that was it–good, bad, wife beater, or drunken loafer. Not that my father, Ronnie, was any of those things. In fact, she said he was “the best.” So, how could she even entertain the idea of moving on?
There was one “close call,” so to speak, when she entertained the idea of letting a gentleman court her. He was a contractor who built houses and had lots of money. She has always said it was my fault she rejected his proposal because I said nobody could replace my father. I think that was just an excuse.
After my two sisters (one older and one younger) and I grew up and moved out, life became lonely and boring for my mother, Irene. My sister Judy was first to suspect Ma was drinking, and, sure enough, we discovered no less than a hundred empty wine bottles stashed in the basement. That was the way my mother looked at things. If you hide it away, it never happened. Irene functioned well enough, so we decided just to keep an eye on her and keep hands off. My other sister, Lucy, and Judy and I took turns looking in on our mother.
One sunny Sunday morning, I swung by her house, thinking I would catch her as she returned home from church. Instead, the house was all locked up and Irene was passed out in bed. It was past noontime. I put on a pot of coffee, using her old-school percolator, and, as gently as I could, I shook her awake.
She gasped, startled, “Oh, Nicky! It’s you.” Then, inexplicably, she hugged me and started to cry–not whimpering, but bawling.
“What is it, Ma? What’s wrong?” I asked, patting her shoulder blades and trying to wrest loose from her grip.
“I had the worst night…” she started to say. What I noticed next was disconcerting to say the least. Her odor–not just perspiration, though a sticky sheen was covering her skin, but something else, not a smell I would associate with my mother. From between her legs wafted a strong, unmistakably almanbahis feminine aura from her vagina. I recoiled.
“Did something happen last night?”
My mother Irene nodded penitently.
“Were you drinking?”
“Oh, yes, indeedy!” she sang playfully, but she wasn’t smiling.
I told her, “Tell me what happened, Ma.”
Abruptly, she leapt from the bed and said, “Wait.” In the bathroom with the door opened, I heard her wretch, blow chunks into the toilet bowl, change positions and squirt liquefied shit, cough and puke some more, shit again, and then finally pee a long stream of urine topped off with several squeaky farts.
“Why don’t you take a shower and brush your teeth while I make you some breakfast?”
My mommy dearest nodded and I went downstairs to her kitchen to make a light repast of toast, marmalade, coffee, and orange juice. I mainly needed to get away from her foul-smelling outpouring, or else I would throw up myself.
Irene looked bright and refreshed when she joined me. At fifty, she was trim and pretty. All cleaned up, she looked happy, nibbling on her toast and sipping her juice. Then I asked her to fill me in about her “worst night.”
She cleared her throat, as if performing, then began. “I was watching a movie on TV…in my pajamas…drinking some wine…when the doorbell rang.”
“What time was it?” I asked, placing my coffee cup on its saucer, the way my mother likes me to do.
“About nine,” she said after pausing to recall. “Not that late!”
“Late enough,” I scolded.
Irene went to the front door and two young men were standing in the rain. They were really just boys, nineteen or twenty, she figured.
“Sorry to bother you, ma’am,” one of them said, rivulets of rainwater flowing down his forehead.
“We got a flat tire,” said the other one, who was taller, but not as cute, rain beating on his hatless head.
“Oh, for goodness sakes,” my mother laughed. “Come on in. It’s raining so terribly bad.”
The drenched youths stumbled through the threshold, stomped their soggy footwear on Irene’s doormat, and shook like a pair of wet pooches.
“May we use your phone?” the dark-haired cuter boy asked politely.
Since almanbahis yeni giriş the wall phone in the kitchen had a taped-up cord and the earpiece crackled, my mother decided they could use the extension. “Sure, right here in the bedroom.” She led both young bucks into her boudoir an instant’s hesitation.
Irene stood between the fellows, smiling and rocking on the balls of her bare feet, feeling slightly tipsy.
“How much wine did you have, Ma?” I interrupted her to ask.
“I just finished the second bottle of red,” she confessed.
The cute guy talked to someone for a minute and then hung up the phone on its cradle.
“They said they’d send a tow truck out after the rain stops,” he told Irene as well as his companion. “It’ll be at least two hours, they said.”
“Well, you boys can stay here, where it’s nice and dry till they come.” My mother offered her hospitality in a decidedly maternal manner. Then she suggested, “Why don’t you get out of those wet things. They’re soakin’ wet.”
The young bucks, whose names were Don and Joel, took off their shirts, pants, and shoes and draped them over my mother’s bathtub, sink, toilet, and towel racks. Ten minutes later, my mother was lying on her bed in her flannel pajamas beside two adolescents wearing nothing but boxer shorts, watching a crappy old-time movie on her portable TV.
“It was my own fault,” Irene told me cryptically, nonchalantly using her hand to wipe crumbs off the table and onto the floor.
“What was?” I asked, disturbed by the whole scene she described.
“Everything that happened,” she said, pursing her lips and shaking her head. “I started it.”
Irene offered the boys something to drink and brought over a bottle of white–white this time. After drinking most of it, Irene gave Don a kiss on the cheek because she thought he reminded her of me. She said it was impulsive, but chaste. To Irene’s surprise, Don pressed his lips to hers, parted them, and wiggled his tongue inside her mouth.
“It felt so nice, so sweet, so warm…”
The youngster and middle-ager kissed, squirmed, and fondled. When the kid reached under the mature woman’s buttoned shirt, she let him touch her breast. Her nipples hardened almanbahis giriş so quickly they hurt. She moaned, still kissing mouth-to-mouth with Don. Then Joel pulled down my mother’s pajama bottoms and touched her ass. She rolled onto her side and started kissing Joel, who tasted of cigarettes. Then Don touched my mother’s thicket of pubic hair. The young studs out on the prowl got a flat and hit the jackpot.
The saintly woman who gave me birth and strove to live as the Virgin Mary had, announced “I fucked them both.”
“Ma, you fucked them both?” I blurted out the words, not believing them and believing them at the same time.
Irene took Joel’s longer, veined cock in her mouth first, while Don drilled his finger into my mother’s vagina and licked her glistening labia, swelling with pleasure for the first time in years. Being young, Joel came quickly, shooting hot wads of passion down Irene’s throat. Moments later, Don mounted my mother’s haunches like a prancing pony and fucked her cunt till she screamed. She laughed at herself and then closed her eyes to enjoy Don’s smaller, fatter member filling her swollen pussy. When Joel’s turn came, the nice Catholic girl from Hoboken whispered in his ear, “Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me!”
My mom told me she sucked Don’s penis and tasted her own female fluids before Joel stuck his member between her buttocks. “I never went in for that with your dad,” she informed me and I almost puked. I really wanted to cry.
“So, when he put his thing in my mouth again, I tasted my own feces. Yuk!” Then she seemed oddly detached, adding, “All that youthful energy…They just kept wanting to do it.” Then Irene formed a ring with her forefinger and thumb and used the middle finger of her other hand to make a stabbing motion.
“How many times did those guys fuck you?” I demanded to know.
Irene giggled and shrugged, “I don’t know.” Then she repeated, “I didn’t keep count.”
The problem was not that my cougar mother went wild, but she let the boys stay until she fell asleep–passed out, actually. When she woke in the wee hours, her young lovers were long gone and so was the money clip she kept in the cookie jar, about $200, a goodly sum in those days.
“I feel so stupid,” she lamented. She was upset at herself, not for acting like the biggest old whore in town, but for letting somebody rob her cookie-jar money.
As for me, I need to rethink my life, my memories, and my expectations. My mother did what?
…/…
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